Diamonds and Rust
by AgainstBombs
Summary: Three years have passed since Sherlock was gone, and since then, John had those nightmares. He used to wake up sweaty and screaming almost all damn day, and learned to deal with it. Got used to it. Continued to live despite all the pain and heartbreak (...) But one day, after three painful years that seemed like an eternity, everything changed again. Johnlock, Post-Reichenbach fic.


_English is not my mother tongue. Sorry for any mistakes, please ;)_

**Diamonds & Rust**

_I'll be damned, here comes your ghost again_

_But that's not unusual_

_It's just that the moon is full_

_And you decided to call_

Three years have passed since Sherlock was gone, and since then, John had those nightmares. He used to wake up sweaty and screaming almost all damn day, and learned to deal with it. Got used to it. Continued to live despite all the pain and heartbreak.

A great part of his life remained the same. His job, for example, and most of his colleagues. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson visited him often, and even Mycroft appeared periodically. But all this only served to remind him that the world continued to turn and people continued to live in spite of his best friend's death.

At the end of the day, John was alone in that apartment full of memories of which he had not had the guts to get rid of. Almost all Sherlock things still there. He couldn't touch anything; it didn't seem right. He knew how much the detective valued his mess. And then, alone, he would face the window and cry. They say that crying is good for the soul... He cried for three years and didn't feel slightly better. Sherlock was gone, and he took a piece of John's heart with him. After he cried until his eyes sting, John used to fall asleep right there on the couch. Or floor, or elsewhere. Then he just woke up in the morning, sweaty and screaming as before. Then he gets dressed and went to work, where he would poorly meet his patients, with a fake smile painted on his destroyed face. It was a mediocre life.

But one day, after three painful years that seemed like an eternity, everything changed again.

**...**

It looked like just another pathetic and ordinary day at first. John woke up screaming on the floor, took a shower, got dressed and left for work. Lunched alone, and returned to work. At the end of the day, he returned home, sighed, took a shower, he swallowed something that found thrown into the back of the fridge without even bothering to taste it, and lay down on the couch already aged. Usually, it was then that he looked out the window and started to cry, but today, for some reason, he didn't like it. Simply closed his eyes and before he knew it, he fell asleep.

**...**

The nightmare was always the same. John saw himself repeating in his head, every night during those years, all that has happened before. The urgent call, those half words, the fall... The body bleeding on the street. Then there's his own despair. And there's also that tiny incessant voice in the background, saying that John could have saved him. That he could have done something. That was his fault. The voice was… Sherlock's voice, and that was what made the thing really frightening. But... Who am I trying to fool? Dreams are not "created" but rather reflect what's on your mind. They don't come out of nowhere. The real blame has been placed there by John himself, consciously or unconsciously. Anyway, it just got worse. And the voice doesn't leave the doctor's head. Pounded in his thoughts throughout the day, and it was driving him mad.

But that day, for some reason, the nightmare was interrupted. John had not awakened screaming, but exasperated. What was different this time? Why the bloody dream stopped halfway?

That's when the phone rang again. Snorting, John stood up and walked to the table, wishing it was just some nonsense salesman bothering him, and not someone asking if he was okay or something. The seller was easy to be excused. It was difficult to avoid his sister or a colleague. He just wanted to finish it to get back to his torture. He was having that nightmare for so long that being interrupted made him a bit annoyed.

But when he put his hands on the phone and stared at the screen, his heart beat faster. He saw the name on the display, but his brain could not decode anything. What he had just read ... It made no sense! For a moment, he froze. Then, with trembling hands, answered the phone.

_And here I sit, hand on the telephone_

_Hearing the voice I'd known_

_A couple of light years ago_

_Headed straight for a fall_

"H-Hello?" His voice failed.

"John?" That's the answer he received, and after hearing it he right away assumed it was just a dream. He knew the voice, but it was not possible.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John said, his voice still trembling.

"Yes," The detective said, breathing heavily.

"I cannot believe it." John said, holding back tears. "Is it really you?"

"It's me, John." Sherlock replied carefully. "I'm getting there. I know I'm probably asking too much, but you would open the door for me?"

John had no time to answer, because he got cut off. Blinking, he tried to process what had just happened. That voice ... It seemed like centuries have passed since the last time he had heard. He had dreamed of it for years, but honestly, never so clearly. It did not seem a dream, but there was another explanation? It could not be true! It was probably a new and more excruciating nightmare.

There were brown leaves at the entrance of the flat, but autumn was over some time ago. It was snowing that night. When John finally reached the doorknob, he had to count to ten and take a deep breath before finally gather the courage to turn it. When he did, what he saw was, surprisingly, Sherlock Holmes, apparently in flesh and blood. He was thin, much more than before. He had dark circles and they matched those that John had taken for himself. He was pale, and there was snow in his black curled hair, and John felt the urge to take it off by himself, but feared touching the man in front of him and discover that it was only a beautiful dream. So he didn't.

The silence reigned for a while, and all you could hear was the heavy breathing of both, forming white clouds which curled into each other. Sherlock stared at John with some urgency, trying to read everything he could before John spoke something. But John didn't say anything. He was paralyzed. It was then that Sherlock decided to talk himself.

"John?" He said, awkwardly.

"Is this some kind of dream?" John immediately asked, though it sounded more like an accusation.

"I'm afraid not." Sherlock replied carefully.

"But I do not believe." John said simply, staring at the detective.

"What can I do for you forgive me?" Sherlock started talking, but John interrupted.

"Prove me. I cannot believe it. I saw you falling ... I saw you dead, Sherlock! You may be many things, but you're not immortal... I saw you bleeding on the pavement!" John was confused and distressed.

"I planned it." Sherlock replied.

"Planned?" John spat "How you planned that?"

"I had to do it! Moriarty was going to kill you, and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and... I mean, Moriarty's henchmen. It was necessary." Sherlock summarized.

"Oh, right. And at what point during your brilliant plan you planned to call me to say something like, 'John, I'm alive. Do not worry!', You bastard?! Or have you forgotten?" John asked, leaving all the woes kept coming to the fore, whether in word or tears. "You have any idea how were the last three years, Sherlock?"

"John, I-" That was probably one of the few times that Sherlock was really unsure what to say. He knew what he did was terrible, although justifiable. "I thought you would moving on."

_Now you're telling me_

_You're not nostalgic_

_Then give me another word for it_

_You who are so good with words_

"Move on?" John policed to not scream.

"Forget me." Sherlock said.

"You really are a selfish bastard, you know, Sherlock?" John murmured after a moment in silence. "You create your plans, your schemes, and I have to dive head on it, take in on the chin, enduring the consequences. And yet, for some reason, I can't stay away. I don't know if I'm a masochist or what, but you know, I miss you every damn day in these three years." Pause. "Do you even miss me?"

"Would you believe if I said I missed you all this time?" Sherlock replied.

"I don't know. I never know what to expect from you." Grumbled John.

"I missed you every day, every week, every month, every year... I missed you every minute, John. You may not believe it, but while I was hunting damn Moriarty's henchmen and stuff, all I wanted was to be home. And no more hunting seemed so interesting without you." Sherlock said with a small smile on his face. John was silent for the first time since it all began. "And I know that probably you will not forgive me, but..."

"It's what I should do, no? Don't forgive you ... It's what you expect me to do." Said John. Breathing heavily, he tried to clear his mind, without success. "I really should do it. But why can't I? "

Sherlock had no answer. Stared at the blond one, more confused than ever before. John didn't know what to think... What to feel. Suddenly he turned.

"Sherlock, what have you done to me?" John said, but it sounded like a moan. He pulled the detective by the collar. He just wanted to punch him, or at least he thought he wanted. He thought that it would solve everything.

But before he could do it or think about doing it, Sherlock pulled him by the neck and pressed his lips to John's. Caught by surprise, John's eyes widened, but he dared not separate the kiss. It was what he wanted to do from the beginning, though he tried to disguise the true desire with the anger that he should feel. The truth is that there was some anger there. All he wanted was to hold Sherlock as never before, kiss him, make him his again, whatever.

His lips were soft as John never seen before, and he didn't need more than one second to return the kiss, hungry. All of this anger he felt a minute ago melted now, on the hot lips of Sherlock Holmes.

Time later, breathless, they broke the kiss, and Sherlock could not help smiling.

"You are not going away." Said John, smiling.

"No..." Sherlock smiled even more. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

He had barely finished the sentence, and John's lips were on them again.

**...**

_It's all come back too clearly_

_Yes I loved you dearly_

_And if you're offering me diamonds and rust_

_I've already paid_


End file.
